The One Where Dean Loses His Coat
by el spirito
Summary: But Sam Helps Him Find It  Dean has a cold. Then he loses Dad's coat. Sam has his back.


It's refreshingly easy, just digging up a grave, smashing a coffin, and salting and burning bones. Really, nothing to it. Except that Dean is sniffly and red-nosed and there's a little trickle of snot heading towards his mouth. Dean sniffs and makes a gross hawking noise in the back of his throat before swiping the back of his hand across his face. Sam grimaces.

He's managed to keep Dean on guard duty by claiming he's cold and needs the exercise to keep his body temp up; Dean, naturally, takes this very seriously and is standing by the grave, favorite sawed-off clutched to his chest, sniffling determinedly. He seems to think that taking the time to actually blow his nose will distract him and put Sam in danger, so instead he keeps rubbing his nose and hawking loogies and coughing lightly into his sleeve. Every once in awhile Dean shoots a sideways look at Sam that is unmistakably guilty, like he knows that Sam is watching him.

Sam sighs and hides a smile as he starts to fill in the grave. He isn't at all surprised when Dean sneezes painfully, the kind that sounds like it was unexpected. Dean's face is almost comical, and his shoulders droop, the shotgun lowering for the first time all night.

"Son of a bitch," he mutters.

xxxx

By the time they get back to the motel room, Dean is sneezing and coughing up a storm, and the flush has spread from his nose to his cheeks. Sam reaches a sneaky hand to help turn the steering wheel the last few miles after Dean nearly drives the Impala off the road, and whether he doesn't realize or doesn't care, Dean's lack of response is telling.

Dean shuffles across the parking lot, half folded over himself, pausing once to cough, but Sam restrains from helping him; Dean's fiercely independent at the best of times, and this is definitely not best. He gives Dean a few minutes to unlock the door, and finally steps in to take the key. Dean offers a muffled protest.

"Hey," Sam says. "Let me. You're sick, Dean."

Dean sneezes, then looks at Sam with glassy eyes.

"Not sick," he murmurs pitifully.

"Uh, yeah," Sam says. "You are."

Dean releases his grip on the motel key and turns away in a pout. Sam hides a smile and unlocks the door.

"Hop in the shower, Dean, I'm gonna check through the first-aid kit and see what we've got, okay?"

Dean glares at him, lower lip ever so slightly protruding. He looks so adorable Sam bites his lip to keep himself from _aww_-ing at him.

"Don't wanna," Dean says quietly.

"Too bad," Sam answers. Dean doesn't often get sick, but Sam knows from experience that he responds best to orders when he is. Of course, that response usually resembles what he would expect from a petulant five-year-old, but Sam will take what he can get.

"You're not my boss," Dean says, then sniffs and scrubs a hand across his nose. Sam doesn't even try to hide his grimace of disapproval. Dean looks up sheepishly mid-swipe and tries to subtly wipe his hand off on his pants before sighing heavily, shoulders drooping, and walking slowly to the bathroom door.

Sam watches him go before shaking his head with a small smile and rifling through the first-aid kit, pulling out Tylenol and cough lozenges and setting aside the thermometer just in case Dean actually allows Sam to check his temperature. He's making a mental check list, _chicken soup, chamomile tea, some kind of fuzzy warm blanket, _when an absolutely devastated cry rings out from the bathroom, startling Sam even as he jumps up from his chair.

"Dean! What's wrong?" He barks, barreling toward the door. Dean emerges from the bathroom shirtless and bare-footed, face crest-fallen.

"I left it Sam and now it's going to be lost!" Dean wails. Sam stops in front of Dean, grabs his brother by the shoulders and steers him toward a chair.

"What did you leave, Dean?" He asks, worried about the answer.

"Dad's coat! I don't know where it is and it's going to be gone forever," Dean moans, his voice catching. Sam shakes his head in fond exasperation.

"Okay Dean, you probably just left it in the cemetery. I'll make sure to get it while I go out to the store real quick, okay? Just get back in the shower and then get into bed, and I'll be back in no time."

Of course, Dean can't do that because Dean never makes anything easy, no matter how under the weather he is. He coughs hoarsely and shakes his head.

"No," Dean says, his voice remarkably firm considering how much his body is wavering. "No, I'm going with you."

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his hair as Dean heads for the door.

"Hey, whoa, you can come but not like that. You're half-naked, Dean!"

Dean looks down and seems to realize that what Sam says is true, then tries for the door again.

"Okay, c'mere," Sam says, firmly guiding his brother by the shoulders onto the bed. "Just sit there for a second. I mean it, Dean, don't move."

Dean sniffles and glares at him, swiping a hand under his nose as if in defiance. Sam rolls his eyes as he pulls a pair of socks and a shirt from Dean's duffle.

"Can you handle putting this on?" He asks, handing Dean the Henley.

"Course I can," Dean grumbles, snatching the article in question from Sam.

Sam slips the socks on over Dean's feet, then eases the familiar hiking boots on, tying the laces tightly. When he glances up, Dean is in a silent battle with his shirt, and the shirt appears to be winning. He's got one arm through the neck hole, and somehow he's also got his head through the neck hole. The effect is both amusing and somewhat amazing.

"Really Dean?" Sam says, reaching up to help correct Dean's feverish attempts at dressing.

"'M sorry," Dean says, and sniffles again. Sam isn't sure if the sniffle is just from the cold or if Dean's actually crying a bit. If it's the latter, the fever is probably higher than he's comfortable with. Dean's always become an emotional wreck with fevers that tip toward the higher end of the scale.

"It's okay," Sam assures as he finally gets the shirt righted. "Hang on, I'll get you some Tylenol and a jacket, okay?"

Dean nods miserably, dry-swallowing the pills when Sam hands them to him and making no protest when Sam pulls his heaviest, largest hoodie over his brother's head. It appears to drown Dean whole, coming down past his hands, and the hood makes him look like a Jedi.

"C'n we go now?" Dean asks.

"Yeah. No. Hang on a sec."

Sam sorts through his duffle again as Dean groans in irritation, a long drawn out "Sa-am!" that sounds like the complaints of a six year old.

"Got it, Dean," Sam says, tugging the hood off Dean's head and wrapping a thick, hand-knit scarf around his neck.

"The hell?" Dean mutters, trying to get a good look at the scarf. "Where's this from?"

"Someone made it for me," Sam says, suddenly a bit sheepish. "After that poltergeist in St. Louis. She said I looked cold, made me a scarf."

"Uh-huh," Dean says, then coughs for a few seconds. "Sounds like true love to me."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says, but it isn't malicious. Sam tugs a beanie down over Dean's ears and flips the hood back up, then nods in satisfaction.

"'M I good now?" Dean mutters, glaring at Sam.

"You're good. Let's go."

xxxx

It's started snowing since they got back to the hotel room, and it's coming down at a good clip; already there's a layer of snow an inch and a half thick across the landscape. Sam suppresses a sigh and wishes again that Dean would have relented to staying behind, but one look at his brother-hunched over and clearly miserable, but undeniably determined- and he knows that that would never have happened.

"I just, I really need it, you know?" Dean mumbles suddenly, sniffling and then abruptly sneezing.

"I know, Dean, it's okay," Sam says.

"He _gave _it to me," Dean elaborates, waving one hand in the air. "Said he was _proud_."

Sam's heart sinks for a second and he snakes a hand over and puts it on Dean's knee.

"Hey," he says, "_of course _Dad was proud."

It's a lie, sort of. Dad wasn't always proud, but he should have been, and if he was still alive- that thought hurts a little bit, so Sam just squeezes Dean's knee and turns back to the road.

"I need it," Dean repeats, quietly.

xxxx

The jacket is in a heap next to the gravestone where they worked before, and now that they're there, Sam can't figure out why Dean took it off in the first place. He's about to ask when he notices what Dean's doing. He's kneeling in the snow, reverently lifting the coat and brushing the snow off of it, pausing to sneeze over his shoulder, and then inspecting it from all angles.

"'S it ruined, Sammy?" He asks, looking up at Sam with wide eyes. "Did I ruin it?" His lower lip wobbles and Sam thinks _dammit, high fever _before he kneels down next to Dean.

"No Dean, you waterproofed the hell out of it last winter, remember?"

Dean shakes his head uncertainly and rubs the sleeve of Sam's hoodie under his nose. Sam manages not to grimace.

"Well, you did," Sam says, taking the coat and holding it up. "See? It looks fine."

Dean nods and snatches the coat back, clutching it to his chest. Sam smiles.

"Come on, we'll hit the store and then go back to the motel, okay?"

Dean nods and doesn't flinch away when Sam puts a supporting hand on his back.

xxxx

A few hours later, Dean's fever is down a bit, and Sam's managed to force-feed him half a can of chicken noodle soup and a cup of Theraflu. Dean's barely awake in front of the TV (and Sam pretends not to notice how quickly channel is changed from 'Dr. Sexy' to the much more acceptable 'Die Hard' when he gets out of the shower) so Sam herds him to bed and eases his boots off and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

(He only laughs a little bit when he notices Dad's jacket bunched up under Dean's pillow, right next to his knife.)


End file.
